Midnight, January 25, 1886

To-morrow is a year since Gordon died!A year ago to-night, the Desert stillCrouched on the spring, and panted for its fillOf lust and blood. Their old art statesmen plied,And paltered, and evaded, and denied;Guiltless as yet, except for feeble will,And craven heart, and calculated skillIn long delays, of their great homicide.

A year ago to-night 'twas not too late.The thought comes through our mirth, again, again;Methinks I hear the halting foot of FateApproaching and approaching us; and thenComes cackle of the House, and the Debate!Enough; he is forgotten amongst men.